


Showers First

by youreyestheyglow



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, PWP, Porn, Smut, modern au type thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:21:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Levi is in the habit of rescuing kids in his neighborhood from beatings, and one day he saves nineteen-year-old Eren. Sex ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Showers First

You hear yelling outside your window.

Of course you do.

Why the fuck did you choose to live in this shithole?

You sigh as you head to your door, pulling on your shoes – no, you’re going to be walking through mud, boots would be better. You throw the door open and see them immediately – four kids on one, and the one is fighting damn well, but he can’t take on the four assholes beating on him.

You wade into the fray, pulling the kid up and shoving him towards your open door as you kick the kid behind you in the dick. “Go in!” you say impatiently before turning back to the fight, smashing one kid’s head into the wall and ducking to avoid another jackass’s fist.

A couple minutes later you head inside, leaving four bodies behind you.

“If you’re at all intelligent, you’ll tell me you were the victim, and I didn’t just beat four kids nearly to death for shits and giggles.”

You shut the door and turn to face him, taking stock of his injuries – bloody hands, cut forehead – actually, there’s no way you’re doing this now, he’s covered in blood and getting dirt all over your floor. “Do you have any broken bones?” You ask brusquely.

“No, I don’t think so. Um – thanks for – whatever you just did – did you say nearly to death?”

“Yes, I did. They’ll wake up, though. Eventually.”

“What if they try to get in here?” His turquoise eyes flick around, taking stock of the windows and doors.

“If they come into my house, they’ll die. It’s a pretty basic rule around here. You go into someone’s house uninvited, you forfeit your existence.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Uh. I am in here on invitation, correct?”

You flare your nostrils. “Yes. Now. Do you have anywhere to be? Or do you need a place to stay for the night? I’d recommend staying the night. Some of those cuts look bad, and they’re gonna need to be checked out in the morning. Assuming you can’t get to a hospital – and if you’re here, I’m probably right – I’m the best person for the job.”

He scrunches up his nose. “Do you offer that to every unsuspecting nineteen year old who walks in here?”

“Nineteen? Usually they’re younger than that.”

He stifles a snort.

You roll your eyes. “There are a ton of kids around here who get beaten up and have no place to go. I take ‘em in, let them shower, wash their clothes, make sure they’re not dead, and send them back out, no payment – in any form – necessary. Take it or leave it, but if you take it, get in the shower, you’re a wreck and I’m not letting you cover my carpet in mud and blood. It’s a shit carpet, but it’s not dirty, and it should stay that way.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you take kids in?”

“I used to be a street urchin too. But with a better knowledge of martial arts and homicide. Shower or no?”

“Homicide? You’re not going to kill me while I’m in the shower, are you?”

You note with some surprise that there’s humor in his voice.

“Are you joking about your possible imminent death?”

“Nah, mostly just curious.”

“No, I won’t be killing you. Are you staying?”

He hesitates for a moment, but nods and holds out his hand. “I’m Eren.”

You glance at his dirty, bloody hand. “Levi. Shower first, and _then_ physical contact.”

“Where’s the shower?”

You lead him to the bathroom and show him how to work the shower. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to grab your clothes, I’ll wash them for you.”

“Thanks.”

He grins at you as you leave.

You wash your own hands in the kitchen sink – they’re a little bloody, themselves – and head back to the bathroom and knock on the door.

“You can come in,” he calls.

You open the door and find his clothes in a pile on the floor, instead of neatly folded.

You sigh and bend to pick them up.

There’s a swish behind you and an “oh.”

You turn around to find Eren, standing there, shower curtain wide open – water spraying all over your floor – and blushing as his eyes find your face.

You keep your eyes trained on his blue-green ones.

You will not look down.

There is no reason to look down.

“What do you want me to wear? If you’re taking my clothes?”

Would it kill him to shut the freaking curtain? Or at least make an attempt at covering himself? Really? “A towel. That would be nice.”

You will not look down.

You will not look down.

Your eyes flicker downward of their own accord.

You turn and leave.

You will not think about his half-hard dick, or the piercing you saw just underneath the head. You won’t think about its girth or what it would feel like in your ass. You won’t think about it. He’s a kid in your house – nineteen and legal – a kid in your house, and you won’t fuck him. You won’t do it.

He’s legal.

It would be breaking your own personal rules.

You dump his clothing in your laundry and realize that he’s going to be wandering around in your house in nothing but a towel for a long time.

You inhale sharply at the idea of his stomach, his legs, his well-formed dick just underneath a towel –

You pour in detergent and start the washing machine.

If there’s one thing you can do, it’s control your thoughts.

He is in your house, he needs your help, and you offered it to him.

He’s staying until tomorrow morning, at least. He’s probably hungry. You’ve made dinner for everyone who’s walked through your door since you started taking kids in, no point in stopping now.

You make something simple – pasta with something or other that you don’t pay much attention to – and at some point, you hear footsteps behind you.

You don’t turn around.

No need to, really.

“Why do you do this? Take kids in? Isn’t it enough that you get them out of fights?”

“Well, you can leave if you want, brat,” you snap.

“No, I don’t want to,” he continues unperturbed. “I’m just curious. Also, do you really have to stir pasta that much?”

Your nostrils flare as you take the wooden spoon out of the pot and set it to the side.

You know what you’re going to see. You’ve seen it all and more already, and it won’t surprise you.

You turn to face him.

He didn’t bother drying off.

His hair is still plastered to his skull, except in the middle, where a piece sticks straight up. Water drips from his hair down his face, down his neck, down, down, down –

“When I was younger, I was a shithead of a street urchin, leading my little gang around, being an entirely unproductive member of society.” You snort as you recall the alleyway you’d claimed for the three of you, the alley that quickly became the cleanest part of the entire city. People had tried to take it from you, once, until you’d begun visibly dragging their bodies – sometimes alive, sometimes not – away from what you’d claimed as your own. “Until one day, this asshole named Erwin Smith found us. Chief of police. Said we could either go with him to court, or we could go with him into the police force.”

You cross your arms over your chest as you remember his face, cold and impassive, as he told you he was dragging you away from the only place that had ever been yours, probably to be thrown into the line of danger regardless of what choice you made.

“We went into the police force, naturally. Court wasn’t where any of us wanted to be.”

They’d treated you like shit, there. You were the only three who hadn’t been through training, and it might not have shown in your abilities, but it showed in your lack of deference for authority, your unwillingness to associate with the others.

“We made our reasons for being there pretty goddamn clear. We were there because we had no choice, and we would go out in the field and do the dangerous work because our lives were on the line anyway. It was a shit situation, but the best one we had, so we dealt with it. Installed ourselves on the porcelain bowl and held out through the whole shitstorm until we came to our senses, stopped being such enormous assholes. Calmed down.”

He watches you intently, the fingers of one hand fiddling with the towel where it’s tucked in, holding it up.

A bead of water slides down his stomach and under the towel.

You’ve seen what’s under there already. No big deal.

That drop of water would run down his thigh, incredibly close to his dick. You could get that dick to stand up for you, and if you did, you’d see that ring again, on the underside of his dick, just beneath his head. You can see your tongue flicking out, catching on it, tugging gently, dragging moans out of Eren’s mouth, with his split lips that would probably still taste a little like blood if you kissed them.

You struggle to breathe in as you turn away.

You turn the flame off and pick up the pot, heading towards the sink to drain it.

“The three of us figured things out. The other two stayed there, I ended up here, taking in kids, cleaning them up, showing them what a clean house looks like, keeping them alive, hoping they’ll come out of it a little better.” You scoop pasta into a bowl and push it towards him. “Forks are in the drawer by the microwave. I need a shower.”

You haul ass out of that kitchen, away from Eren and his dick piercing and the bruises on his face and arms, already purpling after he’d been hit, the cut above his forehead, his split knuckles –

You step into the shower, your hand going straight to your dick, stroking yourself into a full erection.

The door opens.

You freeze.

“So,” Eren says uncertainly from the other side of the shower curtain. “I feel like maybe I’m being pushy, but I’m also pretty sure that if I did anything wrong you could beat me to a pulp and throw me out before I even knew what was going on, and since you haven’t done that yet, I feel like I still haven’t gone too far?”

His voice is closer to you now than it was before.

You picture his towel slipping down past his hips and your breath hitches.

You close your eyes. “I told you, I don’t accept payment.”

He snorts. “Who said anything about payment? What, can’t it just be that you’re hot and you’ve been staring at my dick and I’m horny?” He pulls open the shower curtain.

He sees your dick in your hand and his eyebrows jump up.

He drops his towel.

It catches on his erection as it falls.

You reach forward and grab his face, pulling his lips to yours.

You were right. You can still taste blood on his lips. Blood and pasta. Pasta? He probably took a bite before coming in here.

“Idiot, leaving the pasta to get cold,” you mutter as you pull him into the shower with you, ignoring the way he nearly trips over the side of the tub.

He presses his body against yours, his dick grinding against yours.

You slide your hands down his body, dragging your nails across his ribs and down to his hips, using one hand to pull him tight against you and moving the other hand back up to his hair, fisting your hand in it and pulling his head back.

You examine him for a moment as you get your breath back, his entire throat bared for you, water smacking against it, following the taut tendons in his neck.

You press your mouth against his neck, sucking at it and tasting your soap and his sweat, biting at it, trusting to the bruises from his attackers to hide the ones you’re making, reveling in the heavy pants coming from his open mouth.

When you’ve had enough of his throat – for now, at least – you switch your grip, wrapping a hand around his throat and squeezing gently, just enough so his breath sounds more like wheezing.

You move your mouth down to his nipples.

A strangled moan works its way out of his throat, so you stay there for a few minutes, sucking on the hardened nub, feeling his adam’s apple bob under your thumb.

Finally, you release his throat so you can move farther down – your arm is only so long, after all. You take your time, finding every bruise and cut on his stomach – the bruises on his ribs, the slash to the right of his stomach.

You’re probably hurting him.

Judging by his frequent moans, he doesn’t care.

You kiss his navel, just above his cock.

His legs are shuddering.

You suppose it would have been better for him to be the one against the wall. If his legs give out, he’s dead.

He’d better have the self-control to keep his legs under him, then.

You swirl your tongue around the head of his cock, slowly, listening to his slow, controlled exhale.

You catch your tongue on his piercing, curving your tongue around it and tugging, and there are no more slow, controlled exhales, no. No, now he’s whimpering, his hand tangling desperately in your hair as he searches for something to hold onto as you slide your mouth over him, tightening your lips around his head and his jewelry, drooling a little as you slide down, wrapping your hand around the base of his dick when you don’t feel like going down any farther.

You suck until he moans your name.

You hollow your cheeks and pull off of him, flicking his piercing with your tongue again before standing. He grinds against you, gasping as you slide your tongue into his mouth.

You grab his shoulders and turn him around, pushing him against the shower wall, nipping at the base of his neck, scraping your fingers down his back, finding more bruises to push on, more places that make him shudder, until you reach the curve of his ass.

You dig the heels of your hands into his rear, pulling his cheeks apart, grabbing his flesh and digging your nails in.

“Levi –” he gasps.

“Do you want me to stop?” You mutter, your mouth next to his ear for half a second before moving down to mouth at his jaw.

“N-no, no – oh god Levi –”

You reach over and pump conditioner into your hand, rubbing it over your fingers. With the other hand, you grab his hip and pull it towards you, forcing him to stick his ass out, giving you more room to work as you place a single finger against his entrance, sliding your other hand up until it’s around his ribs, feeling them expand and contract at a quickened pace, letting him wait a moment before pushing the tip of your finger inside him.

He pushes back against you, whining when you pull your finger back out.

“No.”

He presses his forehead against the wall, one of his hands covering yours on his ribs, the other in a fist next to his head.

The water temperature fluctuates for a moment, cooling off a little, sending goosebumps and an involuntary shudder across your skin. You reflexively tighten your hand on his ribs and he gasps, his nails digging into your fingers.

You push an entire finger into him.

“Oh god –”

You slide your finger back out. “I don’t need scratches on my hands.”

“S-sorry,” he says through gritted teeth.

You take pity on him, moving more slowly for a time, rhythmically, arching the hand on his ribs so he can lace his fingers between yours and hold on to you, dropping kisses along his spine, inserting a second finger slowly, stretching him out properly.

You’d hate to send him home in more pain than he arrived in.

You have to admit to yourself, as you push a third finger inside him, that that’s not entirely true.

But with the way he’s squeezing your hand, the frequency with which your name drops from his lips cushioned in loud pants and drawn-out whines, you don’t think he minds.

You can feel him shuddering, his muscles twitching as he struggles not to push back against you, as he struggles to hold himself up in spite of the way your fingers are moving inside of him, in spite of how determinedly you’re avoiding his sweet spot, stretching him out but not doing much else.

When you realize he’s holding onto your hand more to help hold himself up than as an anchor, and that his other hand is pressed flat against the wall in an attempt to keep himself standing, you pull your fingers out, wiping them on his back. He pulls in a deep breath, like he’s been running a marathon, and you give him a moment, your hand gliding up his back, taking in the feel of his smooth skin, tracking the bruises left by punches and rough hands.

Finally, he turns his head to the side and asks, in a voice rough from whining and arousal, “Can – can you please fuck me? Now?”

Your mouth twitches. _Please_. So polite.

You think you like him.

So you guide yourself inside him, taking your time, listening to him struggle to breathe and relax around you.

You move slowly at first, letting him get used to you, waiting until you’re bored of his low moans before you pause, shift your hips a little, and begin slamming into his prostate.

He screams, his hand moving from the wall to his mouth so he can bite it, trying to muffle the noise. You lean forward and bite his shoulder, digging your teeth in hard enough to draw blood, listening to him yell your name around his hand.

You leave your mouth there for a moment after you pull your teeth out of him, resting your lips against his skin as you pound into him before pulling back.

You straighten and grab his hair, pulling him back to you, so you can nibble on his neck, letting go of his hair to wrap your hand around his throat, listening to his words, mangled as he speaks around your hand, saying your name repeatedly amid assertions that you’re hitting exactly the right spot.

You take your mouth off his skin for a moment. “If I touch you now, right now, will you cum for me?”

He tries to nod before remembering that your hand is in the way. “Yes, oh god yes, please, Levi, please, oh my god –”

You remove your hand from his ribs, shaking his hand off of yours, and find his dick, slick with cum and water.

You don’t bother going slow or being careful.

It doesn’t matter.

He cums, one hand finding yours on his throat, the other pushing uselessly on the wall of the tub as he arches his back and yells wordlessly, clenching around you, rolling his ass against you, squeezing you so hard you can’t help but gasp as you pull his head around at an unnatural angle to kiss him as you cum. It’s not much of a kiss; his yell fades into incomprehensible babbling that doesn’t stop just because you’re kissing him.

You slide out of him when you’re finished, removing your hand from his throat and stepping back so he can turn to face you. He wraps his arms around your waist and kisses you, properly this time, his tongue sliding into your mouth and skimming along the back of your teeth.

You pull him under the water with you, pulling away to gasp for breath before you inhale any more water, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him until you feel like you’re drowning.

He really is gorgeous.

He stays in the shower with you while you wash yourself, laughing until he cries when you shampoo your hair.

Calling him ‘brat’ has no affect on him.

You’re strongly tempted to take some of the suds from your hair and put them in his eyes.

He wraps himself back up in his towel after you turn off the shower, and you pull on a pair of boxers. The pasta is cold, but you eat it anyway, foregoing the microwave in favor of eating faster.

He spends the night in your bed, tangled around you, and in the morning, after checking all his cuts and bruises and coming to the conclusion that they’ll heal just fine, you have to kick him out when you find out that he’s got a sister at home waiting for him.

He turns and waves as he walks away.

You watch him until he disappears around the corner, strangely disappointed by his departure.

 

* * *

 

You hear yelling outside your window.

Of course you do.

You pull on your sneakers. There’s been a dry spell recently, and any mud and dirt has dried to dust. Boots are unnecessary.

You haven’t been wearing your boots much recently, anyway. Every time you look at them, you see a pair of blue-green eyes, warm with arousal or bright with laughter or slowly blinking open in the morning light or –

You open the door and head out, finding the source of the commotion and diving in, extracting the poor kid and ignoring him for the moment, breaking the nose of a kid who – whom you recognize, because you broke that same nose a little over a week ago.

You break it again anyway, and glance at the kid behind you, ready to tell him to get inside and out of the way, and the words stall in your throat.

Blue-green eyes stare at you.

You roll your eyes and growl as you jump back into the fight.

Eren holds out his arm to you when you’re done, and you take it, like a _Gone With the Wind_ -era maiden on a walk with her suitor.

“I was planning on knocking, but apparently I went through the wrong alley again. Sorry about that.”

You close the door behind you. “Not a problem. Chicken for dinner?”

He grins.

He’s overly confident of your acceptance of his return.

You should be angry with him, for that.

But he pushes you against the door and kisses you, and you close your eyes and kiss him back, and decide that the chicken might have to wait a little while.


End file.
